CHAP. VII.

ON SLEEP.

SLEEP is exceedingly important with regard to our health and comfort. A few observations on this interesting principle, will form a necessary part of this treatise. Sleep has been very correctly and beautifully termed the image of death. "What," enquires Jeremy Taylor, "are sleeping and waking, but living and dying?" When the body lies dormant, with "forgetfulness opprest," the soul appears to have forsaken its corporeal abode. The eyes are closed, objects of beauty no more attract them. The ear is no longer animated by enchanting music, the tongue lies motionless, the vocal powers are still, as if the words of truth and eloquence had ceased to flow for ever. The palate is not susceptible of curious tastes, nor the nostrils of grateful odours, fragrant herbs, groves of spices, and gardens of roses, affect them not. The king is no greater than the beggar: for what is magnificence or royalty - what is the sceptre or the diadem to him? The mighty man is as helpless as the infant. Samson was deprived of his strength when he was asleep. The warrior has no control over his

mighty armies; and the philosopher has little over his learning. Plato and Socrates, when they slept, were like other men; when they were awake, they unfolded the mysteries of science to multitudes of disciples, who sat at their feet and received instruction. During sleep, the rich man is stripped of his riches. Midas, the king of Phrygia, was not oppressed with the abundance of his wealth; nor was Croesus, the king of Lydia, elated with the unvarying favours of fortune. Alexander triumphed not in his wide dominions; nor Cyrus in his unvarying victories. Houses, lands, and kingdoms, are not possessed nor enjoyed, when the imagination is wandering in other regions, bounded by other shores.

"The diamond, ruby, and the costly ore,

No longer dazzle, and enchant no more."

The aged, whose memory carries him backward through a long line of interesting events, is almost as though he had never been. The child becomes old, and fancies himself endowed with knowledge and wisdom. The great become little, and the insignificant become mighty men. But the veil is soon withdrawn. One arises to wealth, and another to poverty; one to honour, and another to disgrace; one to popularity, and another to obscurity; one to happiness, and another to misery.

Sleep is an invaluable friend to human beings. It seems to have been purposely connected with the silent hours of darkness. The wants of man, in this respect, and the absence of the sun, have been made to agree with each other.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth

Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb’ring world.
Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound!

YOUNG.

Sleep has been termed, by the same poet, "Tired nature's sweet restorer." Beaumont and Fletcher call it, "The easer of all woes."

By this ma

gical principle, the weary body is restored to its wonted strength; the troubled heart is calmed; the boisterous feeling is subdued. It is, as if a gilded statue, soiled and dirty, were re-gilded, and it comes forth bright and beautiful. Or, as if

a lamp were newly trimmed with oil, to burn throughout the day; and then the lustre again lessens; the faint flame tremblingly maintains its hold; and again it vanishes, and then succeed darkness and apparent non-existence.

Sleep has been beautifully designated dew.— Thus Milton says, "The timely dew of sleep; " and Shakspeare, "The honey-heavy dew of slumber;" that, as the material dew covers and invigorates vegetation, so the influence of sleep restores the human frame.

The opinions with regard to the nature and cause of slumber, have been exceedingly numerous. Some have fancied that it is occasioned by the absence of the soul; others, by the gathering up of the animal spirits; others, by a compression of the brain; others, from the absence of excitation and irritability; and another hypothesis is, that the nervous fluid proceeding from the extremity of the tubes, and uniting in the centre,

occasions a general sensibility, and that particular state which we call wakefulness; while the tendency of the fluid, from the centre towards the extremities, occasions sleep. But these opinions will not account for all the phenomena. Sleep, perhaps, may be nothing more nor less than the torpor of the nervous fluid, arising from its impure or decomposed state. This fluid is secreted from the vascular system; and in the course of a few hours becomes unfit for its office, then drowsiness ensues. Rest restores it, by supplying those rare and delicate fluids, which are necessary for forming a lively and efficient state of the nervous sysThe commencement of slumber depends upon a relaxed condition of the nerves, and the absence of exciting causes. The commencement of wakefulness on the invigorated state of the system, and the operation of exciting causes. Association, habit, darkness, and light, with some other influences, occasion the regularity of sleeping and waking, which usually exists among human beings. Some remarks on the transition from wakefulness to sleep will be given in the next Chapter.

tem.

Slumber usually begins with the organs of vision. The reason is, that they are more accustomed to action. A temporary cessation occasions the fluid to pass from the nerves, and to leave the parts unconscious. There have been some cases of partial sleep, arising from a disarrangement of the system, in which the extremities have been dormant, while the other parts have been conscious. The organs of vision are continually receiving impressions, which preserve the mind in a state of

activity, and continue the mutual influence of body and spirit; but when the eyes are closed, this ceases, and sleep generally follows.

The nervous system, also, may be permanently disordered by an impurity of the blood and other fluids. This is the cause of gloominess, inactivity, feebleness, and melancholy. Sometimes it occasions too much drowsiness, and at other times too little. It arises from ill health, and increases ill health.

It may naturally be enquired, "Cannot the fluid of the nerves, as well as the other fluids of the body, be renovated while a person is awake?" In reply it may be stated, it is not certain that the body can be restored without sleep; for this dormancy appears to be, as Shakspeare terms it, "the birth of each day's life." Without a sufficient period of repose, the muscles, and every part of the body, would be completely relaxed.

Sound sleep is generally the portion of those who waste not their time in bed, and are blessed with a tranquil mind in a healthful body. It forsakes the abode of pain and tumult; and, agreeably to the language of Young, —

"Swift on his downy pinions flies from woe,

And lights on lids unsullied by a tear:

but it does not confine itself to the mansions of wealth and splendour; it visits the humble dwelling of the peasant; it abides, with its soothing effects, in the lowliest cot; and, indeed, in that, rather than in

"The perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costliest state."